That sight of the scars
Painting her young wrists
Shook me with with disbelief
Yet overtook me with jealousy
I'd never be able to express pain
Like she did in her poetry
The crispest of papers
The finest of inks would falter
In front of that beautiful, mangled mess
Her smudged, blood-tinged words would author
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 5:13 PM UTC
That sight of the scars
Painting her young wrists
Shook me with with disbelief
Yet overtook me with jealousy
I'd never be able to express pain
Like she did in her poetry
The crispest of papers
The finest of inks would falter
In front of that beautiful, mangled mess
Her smudged, blood-tinged words would author
Request permission to use this poem